Too Much
by Belen09
Summary: I was sitting next to Sherlock in the old, beat-up vehicle which he had borrowed from God-knows-where, leaning my forehead against the glove box which yesterday morning I wouldn't touch as it looked filthy. Today however, I didn't care - I had thought I could handle it, but I was wrong . . . a gift for Frakme: Celebrating good times!


Too Much

John Pov

When I was five , my dad brought home a box of fruit that I had never seen before. I'd eaten apples ; my mum would clean the place of the old man who lived behind us and he had an apple tree in his yard and she would bring back apples and make really good apple pie. And sometimes bananas, though once we got red ones and the other kids laughed at Harry and me and said they should be yellow. This time though, my dad brought home a box of strawberries.

I don't really remember what I thought of them at the time – what they tasted like . . . because not long after my face itched and I had trouble breathing and ended up at hospital . . . classic case of 'hives'. After that I generally avoided anything to do with strawberries – even going so far as to 'turn down' anything strawberry-flavored whilst I was in the military. While it was possible (and even probable) that I may have 'outgrown' my allergy – I didn't like the taste of strawberries. (It also could have been that I was allergic to whatever the fruit was processed with . . . perhaps a sulfur-based compound.)

OOOOO

At any rate I was living at the 221B Baker Street address with Sherlock when he came home after I had returned from my occasional medical duties at the clinic. It was going to be a good week before I would be needed to substitute for another doctor so I was anticipating some 'off' time so that I could update my blog. However, almost immediately after walking in the door, Sherlock said to me, "How would you like to accompany me doing some undercover work?"

"Depends," I replied. (While I enjoyed accompanying Sherlock on many of his adventures – his undercover work tended to leave me at a disadvantage. Sherlock could assume almost any identity; I, on the other hand, relentlessly resembled exactly what I was – a short, middle-aged man with a bad-shoulder and a bit of a temper. Yes, I could 'reign in' Sherlock, but the last undercover work we did required that I pretend to be an interior designer – something that I was woefully unprepared for.)

I expanded on my reply, "So what is this about?" "It's at a food processing plant. It's possible that diamonds are being smuggled in containers of prepackaged fruit. So I need to be able to get into the building . . . they are hiring 'day laborers' for the packaging line. I thought you and I might apply – two people are better than one in this circumstance. Hopefully I can quickly spot where the diamonds are located – it's a nice commission for relatively little work." I looked at Sherlock as he finished . . .

I thought I might try to bring things down to a more realistic level. "You don't have any idea, do you, of what is involved in 'food processing'? For you, food just magically appears – I can barely get you to go to Tesco, and you complain about that . . . If I go with you, promise you won't complain about everything." "John, I promise," replied Sherlock more quickly than I liked. I had a bad feeling about this, but Sherlock did promise so that I couldn't refuse on that score . . .

OOOOO

After completing a very short questionnaire, the very next day we were to arrive at the plant quite early – five o'clock a.m. – which meant that my brain was still thinking that this was a painful introduction to the morning. (Yes, I do shift work as a physician, but staying awake through the night is different than getting up very early in the morning.) Since it was summer, the sun was just peaking up over the hill, illuminating the sky in that odd silver-blue color that I have always found almost heart-breaking (long story about that, that I won't go into here.)

The plant was open to the environment with a large open bay door where presumably the packed product was loaded on to waiting lorries, and inside the immediate area was a number of forklifts ready to move the packed fruit. Deeper inside, I noticed what seemed to be long tray-like troughs holding some kind of conveyor like machine. These I assumed were the fruit sorting areas, and they seemed to be very damp with some kind of spray directed at the troughs.

As Sherlock and I walked into the plant we were greeted by a man who said he was the supervisor and would assign us our jobs. He asked which one of us was 'Burke' – the name that Sherlock had given himself. Sherlock spoke up and was told that he was to drive one of the forklifts, moving the packed fruit into the waiting lorries. (At this point, I was not particularly this was important one way or the other – I don't know how to drive and although I wondered where Sherlock had gained the knowledge of how to drive a forklift, it was not important.)

I had called myself 'Parker' – despite Sherlock saying that I ought to call myself 'Hare'. (Molly Hooper might have agreed – but I wasn't in the mood.) The supervisor looked at me and said that I was to go and sort fruit. No great surprise there, and I wandered over to stand with a group of mostly women who seemed to find the presence of another male amusing . . . the other man was taller than I by several inches and I was more in the height of the woman who were assembled by the troughs.

The area where we were standing was getting thoroughly dampened by the spray that was bouncing off the conveyor – I said, "Why are they spraying water?" One of the women spoke brightly, "Oh, it's not just water, it has some kind of chemical in it to kill germs . . ." I got a little uneasy at this – but almost immediately the conveyor started moving and the fruit began coming down the line to be sorted. Strawberries. I was going to be sorting strawberries.

(At this point I was thinking 'no great loss' – I didn't like strawberries anyway and was hard pressed to think of any strawberry dessert that I liked – the idea of strawberry shortcake came to mind, but I'd had other fruit topping cake desserts before . . . I had the notion that I was to sort out the 'bad fruit'.)

The fruit that came by me was about what I expected – straight from wherever it had been picked – leaves, twigs, and the occasional clump of dirt included. I set to work diligently – of course I was . . . not only was my reputation (internally fortified) as a person with fine motor skills at stake, but also the medical professional, as someone who wanted the anonymous public to eat good, wholesome food. (In short, I picked EVERYTHING out that I wouldn't myself want to eat – damaged fruit included.

This resolve continued for some time – the bin of collected debris steadily filled at my feet – and I thought that I was performing my job adequately, though I began to notice pains – not from my shoulder as might be expected, but rather from my back and my feet. Something about the repetitive motion I assumed. I looked over to the loading dock area, and was not particularly surprised to see Sherlock in friendly discussion with the other forklift drivers; I hoped that he was getting the needed information . . .

I was also feeling just a little 'put upon' as I saw him accept a cigarette from one of 'his mates'. (So being able to drive the bloody forklift meant that he could 'loaf about'! Whist I was getting a 'pain in the back'! I'll show him a 'pain in the back'!) At this point in my internal conversation – focusing on the thought that 'some people' – never including yours truly, as any 'loafing about' on my part was always noticed – the supervisor in charge of our area came along and watched the group pulling the debris from the line.

He then looked at the bins which were located at our feet. Apparently everything was fine until he came to my bin – and he spoke up. "You pull too much off the line! Too many strawberries! Lose too much profit!" I spoke back to him – this surprised some of my co-workers – but I hate being accused to doing something 'too well' – "I'm picking out what I wouldn't want to eat . . ."

This fell on 'deaf ears', he picked up my bin and dumped it back on the line where apparently many of my unsuitable strawberries were just 'fine'. This was to say the least upsetting, and I could feel my face flush . . . the woman standing to my right made a comment after the supervisor left, "I never eat these packaged strawberries . . ." This comment though reasonable hardly made me feel better.

The next hours standing on the line were miserable; it was evident to myself at least if not to the others, that I was losing whatever desire I had to work in this place. Thank God it wasn't a full shift as the amount of strawberries available limited the working hours; I signed out and made my way by sheer force back to the worn-out vehicle that Sherlock had borrowed. I had been debating whether the pain in my feet was greater than my backache, and had just stretched out with my soles touching the door frame, when Sherlock exited the building and strode over to the automobile. I pulled up my feet just as he flung himself in and sat down.

It was hard to 'read' his mood, and I thought I would start the conversation. "Well, did you find out what you needed?" I tried to sound optimistic, but I was tired, sore, and frankly I dreaded walking up those bloody seventeen steps to our flat, not to mention the additional climb to my bedroom. I definitely decided to take some pain medication as a precautionary measure, if we had to do this again.

Sherlock started the engine before he answered my question; I 'cut to the chase', "Sherlock – are we coming back tomorrow?" Apparently he had been deep in thought, even as he was driving, and my second question broke his train of thought. "Yes," he replied, though not with any apparent conviction – I resigned myself to another day of mindless torture.

When we got home, I exited the automobile and walked up to our front door, entering without waiting for Sherlock; I wasn't sure where he was parking it, but I didn't want to have to walk any further than I had to – I was 'dead tired'. I also made it an early evening seeing that my flat mate was in less than a communicative mood. (And I knew that the morning would be too early – again.)

OOOOO

I did not sleep well. My head was all for the notion, but my back and legs begged to differ. By the time that my alarm sounded, I was in a sorry state. I took some of my stronger pain medication – and hoped that being a little distracted might also help with my problem with such a mind-numbing, difficult job. I 'threw my clothes on', not my usual care in dressing; I may not be as stylish as Sherlock, but I do normally try to look at least clean and 'put-together'.

We pulled up to the processing plant just as the sun broke over the top of the trees. At that very moment – I 'broke'. I looked at the non-descript building with the large side-opening door to allow access for the forklifts and the pallets. The lorry waiting to receive the containers of strawberries . . . turned my head and saw Sherlock 'puffing away' on a cigarette, heedless of anything, successfully steeling himself for the day . . .

Leaning my head forward until I actually was in contact with the glove compartment, I gripped the sides of the seat with both hands and admitted the obvious, "I can't do this. Please you go in and I'll just sit here." Sherlock extinguished his spent smoke in the ashtray. I expected him to say, 'nonsense', but instead he said, "What will you do? It could take hours." "Don't worry about me. Go find out about the diamonds . . ." I knew there was a pad of paper and a couple of pencils in the glove box – useful for when there were accidents or whatever, so I thought I might writing without a specific subject in mind.

"No," he said firmly, "I will go tell them that we 'quit' – this has been a bad idea all along . . ." And that's what he did . . . we left then to go back to Baker Street, where he got me up the stairs whilst talking about an unusual medical case that he had read of, and I 'forgot' how much I still hurt . . .

OOOOO

This might have been the end of it, except that several years later as I was applying for a position as a physician practicing emergency care at a hospital – something I knew I was qualified for and that it would be quite satisfying – one of the interviewers stated that 'yes, I had the expected qualifications, and extensive experience, but he wanted to know, 'What was the job you hated most?''

My first reaction was 'what kind of bloody stupid question is that?' Then I remembered that this was one of those 'modern' interview questions so loved by Human Resource departments. "Well," I said, 'racking my brain' – "The worst job that I ever had was 'processing strawberries'." And I went on to explain a little of my disgust at the procedure, and causing some of those present to shudder. (I'm willing to bet that strawberries were 'off their menu' for the foreseeable future . . .)

I would also go so far as to say that strawberries helped me get that position; even the most unfortunate situation can have some good – at least some of the time!

OOOOO


End file.
